


Mugen no Fushigi

by minkhollow



Category: Persona 4, Warehouse 13
Genre: Case Fic, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 02:05:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1964814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minkhollow/pseuds/minkhollow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bored detective is not a good thing, and a bored Shirogane is even worse.  Four years after the fog lifts, Naoto is in need of a new challenge - and finds one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mugen no Fushigi

**Author's Note:**

> This is post-canon by a few years for both fandoms; in the case of P4, I consider it post-true ending, but there are no spoilers you won't get from the normal ending. Thanks to quiverby for reading it over for me before I unleashed it on the world.
> 
> I am neither Syfy nor Atlus; I'm just borrowing because Naoto and the Warehouse need each other.

Naoto is quite accustomed to being the last person still attempting to solve a case. Leads dry up, new work comes in, the police move on with their other work – but Naoto has never been fond of setting something aside when the puzzle remains unsolved.

University isn’t the challenge it was built up to be – perhaps Kanji was right when he said it wasn’t worth the trouble of sitting through entrance exams and spending ages tearing your hair out before the test results determine your future – and, frankly, even average police work no longer presents the challenge it once did. Naoto will not fall prey to the same demons that claimed Adachi; their inner struggles are nothing alike in the first place, and Naoto has never been that detached from humanity.

But it remains that a bored detective is not a good thing, and a bored Shirogane is even worse. They tend to create their own puzzles, and by extension their own problems. Cold as it may be, Naoto is grateful for this case; it’s the most interesting thing to come along since the fog in Inaba. (Apparently, when you save the world before your second year of high school starts, everyday life loses a bit of its luster.)

So, the facts.

Four men are dead in Kyoto, all showing signs of severe fugu poisoning – but none of them had made any attempt to eat the incredibly poisonous fish in the day before their passing. Age, class, and profession also failed to be common denominators. Naoto even went so far as to call Kanji, so they could investigate the TV world together and see if that somehow had something to do with it, but that turned up nothing.

It makes sense, in retrospect, that the TV had nothing to do with it. The victims in this case showed a clear cause of death, even if no one can figure out how they all ingested so much fugu toxin without going near the things, and besides, Naoto’s never been able to get a television outside of Inaba to do the same thing.

In any case, it took Naoto weeks of digging from where the police left off, not to mention the fourth victim joining the ranks of the mysteriously dead, before finding one common denominator: All four victims had attended an art exhibit in the city within eight hours of the time they were found dead. Unfortunately, beyond that leads are as good as nonexistent. Small wonder the police stalled out on the case.

Someone or something in that museum is poisoning people, but Naoto doesn’t have the time or the resources to look into it alone, and the police have as good as abandoned the case; they probably won’t pick it up again unless and until there’s a fifth victim. The waiting game is tedious, but Naoto still lacks the clout to really press the matter, and can only keep occupied by turning the case over again and again in the vain hope a new direction will materialize out of thin air.

***

Two days into spring break, Naoto gets a call from the Kyoto police. There are two Americans there asking about the fugu case, and they want to speak to someone knowledgeable about it; as the last person working on it, that honor falls to Naoto.

Why Americans are asking about the case is unclear, even after Naoto learns they’re affiliated with the government and remembers that the American Secret Service is not intelligence, as it is in most countries. None of the victims were even remotely affiliated with the United States government, nor were they suspected of any sort of crime, domestic or international.

Still, if they are interested enough to inquire about the case, perhaps they know something Naoto and the police have overlooked. Perhaps this will be the break they’ve needed to solve it. So Naoto heads to the police station, and is introduced to a man and a woman. He is the older of the two, but less professional in his demeanor; from their body language, Naoto would not be surprised to learn that they are or were once lovers, but either way, they are certainly very close friends as well as professional partners.

The man frowns at Naoto, and says in English, in an undertone Naoto likely wasn’t meant to overhear, “This _kid_ is our police contact for this mess?”

Before Naoto can answer, the woman sighs. “This ‘kid’ has already solved close to 50 cases, Pete. Try to be nice.” That said, she turns to Naoto and bows, clearly unused to the motion but trying to show proper local comportment. “My apologies, Shirogane-san,” she says, in passable Japanese that is clearly not even her _second_ language; Naoto is impressed. “My partner sometimes doesn’t know when to stop talking.”

Naoto returns the bow with a small smile. “I am used to my reputation preceding me. I take no offense. If it would be easier to discuss the case in English, that won’t be a problem.”

After they make introductions, the woman – Bering-san – does indeed continue in English (because Lattimer-san doesn’t speak Japanese, if the look of relief on his face is anything to go by). “The police mentioned that you’ve been essentially running point on this case.”

“I have. It’s proven puzzling even to me. If I may ask, before we continue, what precisely is the American government’s interest in this case?”

“It’s not… exactly the government,” Lattimer-san says. “We’re with a special division. We retrieve dangerous objects.”

That statement says everything, nothing, and enough; Naoto nods. “That would tally with the best theory I’ve been able to form. There is only one link between the four victims – they attended a particular museum in the city within eight hours of their respective times of death. Someone or something in that museum gave them a deadly dose of fugu toxin, and improbable as it may be, I’ve had to rule out a malicious act on the part of a person. No one in the museum recalls interacting with any of the victims beyond selling them their tickets. Given that, and given the fact that even the television didn’t yield anything, the only option remaining is that an object in the museum somehow made these men sick. I do not know what exactly, as I haven’t had the time to go to the museum myself. I had been planning to do so tomorrow.”

The agents sit in stunned silence after Naoto finishes; eventually, Lattimer-san says, “Well, hell, you’ve done everything but snag the thing for us. That’s some A-plus detective work right there. But, uh, what does a TV have to do with anything?”

Naoto can’t help a proud smile. “I do my best. As for the TV, it’s a long story – not necessarily one you would disbelieve, given what your line of work seems to entail, but it would be a distraction from what you are here to do.”

Lattimer-san looks disappointed by that, but Bering-san nods. “If it had been our kind of weird, we’d probably know what you were talking about already. In any case, we should hit up that museum tomorrow. Want to come along, since you’ve seen the case through this far?” From the look on Bering-san’s face, she clearly knows Naoto will be there tomorrow, with or without an explicit invitation, and has deemed it wiser to offer one than withhold it.

So Naoto nods again. “I would be honored.”

***

All of three steps into the museum, Naoto spots the problem, or thinks so, at least.

“A special exhibit of kabuki memorabilia? If they have what I think they do… Lattimer-san, you may want to stay out of the room until we confirm this. If I’m right, this could be particularly dangerous to you.”

Lattimer-san frowns. “Well, shouldn’t you hang back too? I mean, there’s no clear demographic on this thing. It could whammy you as easily as it could me. Probably more so, since you’re a native and all.”

Naoto can’t hold in an amused snort (Kanji’s bad manners seem to be rubbing off). “I’ll take my chances.”

Lattimer-san complains the whole way up to the special exhibition room, reminding Naoto very strongly of Yosuke-senpai. When they reach the exhibition room, Naoto switches to Japanese and asks Bering-san, “How do you put up with him on a daily basis?”

“You get used to him after a while. At least this time he’s not touching everything just because he can.”

“Why…” But Naoto lets it drop; perhaps Lattimer-san touches everything for the same reason Yosuke-senpai supposedly nearly wet his pants inside the TV, according to Chie-senpai. Besides, there’s a case that needs solving, and the exhibition room holds exactly what Naoto was expecting it to.

“Kumadori cloths. I expected as much, once I saw the banner downstairs. Is your reading good enough to help me look?”

“I’m rusty when it comes to kanji,” Bering-san says, “but I can give it a try. Who are we looking for?”

“Bando Mitsugoro VIII, likely a kumadori from one of his last shows.” Naoto begins examining the makeup cloths – the originals, not prints based on the wipings – and checking their labels. “He was a legend in the theatre, until he attempted to eat four fugu livers in one sitting. Eight hours later, he was dead.”

Bering-san nods. “Well, I know what an eight looks like, so even if you have to double-check me on the rest, that’ll narrow it down. And that definitely sounds like our kind of weird. I wonder why it didn’t act up until now, though.”

“He died in Kyoto, but if the National Theatre kept the kumadori cloth up to now, perhaps no one came into contact with it, or it wasn’t in the right place?” Naoto doesn’t know enough about these ‘dangerous objects’ to truly form a theory, but guessing is second nature, so long as the puzzle is there.

“Possibly. We probably won’t know until we get it home.”

Between scanning tags, Naoto watches Bering-san do the same. She’s a breath of fresh air, frankly – a woman, a respected investigator (Lattimer-san certainly respects her, in his way), feminine but not submissive, likely wouldn’t be caught dead in a skirt if she didn’t absolutely have to wear one. Her very presence here is a comfort in a way Naoto can’t articulate, and will probably never be able to.

(Even before the TV world, it was never quite dysphoria. But even after the TV world, Naoto certainly isn’t fully comfortable. It’s a mystery that may, unfortunately, go permanently unsolved.)

“I think I found him,” Bering-san says (in English again), snapping Naoto’s attention back to the case at hand. “Does this look right?”

Naoto heads over and reads the tag on the kumadori cloth. “That’s him. And judging from the date on the tag, the time is right. Do you have a way to check?”

After glancing around the room, Bering-san pulls a small aerosol can out of her purse. “Don’t worry, this won’t stain the cloth or set off any alarms or anything. I just don’t want to have to explain it to the staff.” With that, she sprays the can into a gap at the top of the glass; a purple mist settles on the cloth, turns into a shower of golden sparks, and then dissipates.

“That’s it, all right.” Bering-san sighs, trades the can for her phone, and takes a picture of the kumadori cloth. “We’re going to have to get Artie to make a replacement – can’t leave this thing at large, it’ll poison half the country by the end of the exhibit. Thank you for your help.”

“And thank you for yours. I suppose this makes the cause of death for the victims accidental?” Naoto can’t imagine explaining the exact circumstances to the police; it would go over about as well as the TV story had, which is to say, not at all.

Bering-san nods. “Even when there is someone actively using this stuff, it’s hard to draw the line between what they’re deliberately doing and what they’re being made to do by forces beyond their control. In this case, it was just a thing in an art exhibit.”

***

Naoto is pleased to be able to finally close this case, but profoundly sad that it’s over, in a way. There are few enough good ways to keep occupied, these days. Having that one was nice while it lasted. In any case, it’s just about time for dinner when Naoto leaves Bering-san and Lattimer-san to their own devices in the museum; perhaps some ramen and gyoza will take the edge off the sadness.

“That was some good work out there.”

Naoto jumps, and looks up to find a young American woman sitting on the other side of the booth, apparently having appeared there from nowhere. (She’s grinning like a fiend; she must enjoy getting this reaction out of people.) It’s a miracle Naoto’s chopsticks don’t hit the floor.

“I… beg your pardon?”

“It’s pretty rare we get to a ping and find that someone’s done three-quarters of the work for us,” the woman says, in suspiciously flawless Japanese. “I bet the only reason you didn’t have it completely solved is you didn’t know what you were looking for. Want a job?”

Naoto frowns. “What kind of job?”

“Solving more mysteries like that one. We could use a brain like yours, and someone who actually knows a thing or two about East Asia – I know, I know, Japan is not China is not Korea is not India and so on, but you probably have a better idea how they roll than any of us do.”

“I haven’t finished university yet.” It’s a feeble protest, the way Naoto’s classes have been going, but a point that bears raising nonetheless.

The woman waves a hand. “If you want to finish a degree, we can make arrangements. If not, don’t worry about it. The job is based in the States, though. Is that a dealbreaker?”

“Not necessarily.” Naoto would miss everyone, especially Kanji, but there are letters; there’s also email and Skype. It would be difficult, but not impossible.

“In that case, it might interest you to know that we don’t give a shit what you call yourself. I’m here because you’re a damn good investigator.”

And that makes it easy for Naoto to decide. “I’ll take it.”

If anything, the woman’s grin gets wider. “I was hoping you’d say that. You want directions to get to us, or would you rather dig us up on your own?”

Naoto smiles. “Give me a clue and two weeks. If I’m not there by then, I’ll take the directions.”

The woman disappears again when Naoto’s distracted, leaving behind a business card that says only “K39-ZZZ, South Dakota.” It makes no sense, but right now, it doesn’t need to; Naoto will get to the bottom of it.

**Author's Note:**

> The title, according to Google Translate, is Japanese for "endless wonder." Under the circumstances, I had to.
> 
> Kumadori is the makeup applied to kabuki actors; prints based on cloths the actors press to their faces after the show are real things.


End file.
